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THE DRUMS IN OUR STREET 



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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



THE DRUMS 
IN OUR STREET 

3 lIBoofe of War IJOoems 



BY 

MARY CAROLYN DAVIES 



Nefo gork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1918 

All rights reserved 






<** 



Copyright, 19x8, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1918. 



NortoooU tyrese 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 

OCT -2 1918 
©CU506005 



So 
MY THREE BROTHERS 

Sergeant A. H. DA VIES 
Company E, 4-th Battalion, 2oth Engineers, A.E.F. 

Sergeant S. L. DAVIES 
Company D, 6th Battalion, 2oth Engineers, A.E.F. 

Sergeant L. L. DAVIES 

Base Hospital 46, A.E.F. 

Formerly Corporal, Seventieth Battery 

Canadian Field Artillery 

(discharged for wounds) 



Thanks are due to the following magazines for 
permission to republish many of these poems : 

" Century,' * "Poetry," " Touchstone,' ' "Na- 
tion," "Collier's," "Cosmopolitan," "Youth's 
Companion," "Everybody's," " McClure's," 
"Good Housekeeping," "Designer," " Mun- 
sey's," "Smith's," "Ainslee's," and others. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 

PAGE 

The Blood-Stained Cross .... 3 

The Drums Are Echoing in Our Street . 7 

America 1917-1918 8 

Peace 9 

On Leave in a Strange Little Town . . 10 

Soldier Love 12 

A Boy Soldier's Prayer 14 

"Joan, Who Leads the Soldiers" ... 16 

In Our Street 19 

At Wipers and Calvary 21 

A Casualty List 23 

The New Playfellow ..... 26 

Evan 28 

War 31 

A War Wedding 32 

Spring Sows Her Seeds 33 

Smith, of the Third Oregon, Dies . .36 

The Movies in France 39 

[ix] 



Contents 



Young Death 41 

Schoolmates 43 

The Dead Son . . . . . . .46 

Sounds 49 

"Highlanders, Fix Bayonets" ... 50 

"Let's Pretend" 59 

For a Young Soldier 61 

In a Mirror 62 

Purged by War 65 

On a Troop Train 66 

The Great War 68 

Fire of the Sun ...... 69 

If He Came Now .71 

The Chinquapin Trail 73 

On an Old Battlefield 75 

The Recruiting Station at the New York 

Public Library ..;... 76 

The Generous Giver . . . . . 78 

The Gay Lad Death 81 

Richard Lovelace and Richard Smith . . 85 

A Girls' War Sewing Class .... 88 

Tenement Windows 95 

The War Bulletin 97 

The Birds between the Trenches . . 98 

[x] 



Contents 



A Californian in France 

A Song of Several Young Men 

Red Sunday .... 

My Chum 

The Little Trail to Death . 
Wounded Red Cross Nurse . 



PAGE 

99 
101 

102 
IO4 
I07 
109 



PART II 

The Drums in Our Square . . . .113 

Last Night 115 

Enlisted 118 

The Broken Promise 120 

A Greenwich Village Tea Room . . .121 
At the Grand Central Station . . .123 

"Anything You Want" 125 

A Soldier's Wife 127 



[xi] 



PART I 



THE DRUMS IN OUR 
STREET 

THE BLOOD-STAINED CROSS 

(From a rosary found on the body of a poilu killed at the 
battle of Festubert.) 

A black cross and a bloody 

With a small Christ on a tree, 
A black cross and a bloody 

From a dead man's rosary, 
To count no Ave Marys 

To say no prayers by rote 
A black cross and a bloody 

I wear upon my throat; 

A black cross and a bloody 
I wear upon a chain 

[3] 



The Drums in Our Street 

To keep in this my body 
Still, still, his body's pain; 

A black cross and a bloody 
To let me not again 

Sleep satisfied or calm until 
A murderer be slain. 



The young dead man had stiffened. 

His fingers held from harm 
In wooden clasp the cross that now 

Upon my throat is warm. 
About him fell my kinsmen; 

The foe they could not stem; 
And since I have no token 

I keep this cross for them. 

Blackcrusted blood makes holy 
The black cross at my throat. 

[4] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And to the Christ upon it 
I say no prayers by rote : 

Kind prayers I have forgotten, 
The little prayers of peace — 

Until a death be compassed 
I have not time for these. 



Until his death be compassed 

Who slew my kin, I keep 
The little cross upon me 

To tell me, in my sleep, 
Even in dreams, to strengthen 

My arm to join my blow 
With others to bring death to him 

Who laid my kinsmen low. 

I wear the black cross that has been 
In a dead man's hand. I dedicate 

is) 



The Drums in Our Street 

My life, my power, my strength, my hate 
To this : For what his deeds have been 
To slay the one who slew my kin. 

BEAUTY AND JOY ARE KIN TO ME 

AND YOUTH. WAR SLEW THEM UTTERLY. 



[6] 



THE DRUMS ARE ECHOING IN OUR 
STREET 

The drums are echoing in our street. 
Each has heard the music sweet : 
Jones, and Lena, and her three 
Boys; and Mrs. Rafferty. 

The drums are echoing in our street. 
They change each life, as on they beat. 
And Ruth has heard them, Glen, and Guy, 
And Mrs. Henderson — and I. 



[7] 



AMERICA 1917-1918 

A nation goes adventuring! 

With new and shining mail 
A nation goes adventuring 

To seek the Holy Grail. 

A nation leaves its money-bags, 

Its fireside safe and warm, 
To ride about the windy world 

And keep the weak from harm. 

A nation goes adventuring, 

With heart that will not quail, 

God grant it, on some hard-won dawn, 
Sight of the Holy Grail. 

[8] 



PEACE 

When all the war is made and done, 
And in our town I stand once more, 

From other homes I'll seek out one 
And knock upon its door. 

And I will wait there patiently 
Until I hear your step, and then 

As the worn door swings back, will see 
Your face look out again. 

And that is all peace means to me — 
Some day to walk up past the store, 

And past the corner chestnut tree, 
And knock upon your door. 

[9] 



ON LEAVE IN A STRANGE LITTLE 
TOWN 

On leave in a strange little town, 
Soldiers and sailors are chaffing — 

With eyes deep and still, faces brown, 
Are filling the streets and laughing. 

Free from the trenches' smother, 

And their deafening days and nights, 

Some are kissing a happy mother, 
Some only stare at the sights. 

More and more they come crowding 
Till the streets seem full of blue, 

Khaki and blue; tired sailors, 
Soldiers whose leave is due. 
[10] 



The Drums in Our Street 

For the marching and shooting and drill- 
ing 

Each has received his pay. 
After the hating and killing 

The men are on leave today; 

Their songs ringing sweet and free, 
Their laughter sounding bold — 

On leave in a strange little town 
Whose streets are of gold. 



[ii] 



SOLDIER LOVE 

Soldier love's a wild love, and soldier love's 

a glad, 
And that is the love he gives to me. — And 

the love that I give my lad 
Is a keen love and a swift love and a gay 

love and a blind. 
Time enough for weeping when I am left 

behind. 

Time enough for weeping and counting 

motives then, 
When the feet of my lad have fallen in step 

with the feet of the marching men. 
It's the soldier love that he gives me, the 

desperate, reckless sort 

[12] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Which comes of knowing that death's abroad 
and may gather one in for sport. 

Soldier love's a strange love, that only has 

today. 
Lean, then, from the saddle, and kiss and 

ride away ! 
Now the world is dying, with blood its ways 

are wet, 
Soldier love's the only love that any lass 

may get. 



1 13] 



A BOY SOLDIER'S PRAYER 

God, I have the excitement here, 

The thrill, and all the peasants cheering 

And crowding in from far and near 
— She has the silence and her fearing. 

And I have youth to make the most 
Of this adventure. She is old. 

Each perilous hour of mine's a ghost 
That haunts her with its news untold. 

We only give ourselves, and we 

Have songs and drums to keep it high, 

Our courage. But the mothers see 
Their children go to live or die. 

And soon I'll have the trenches, and 
The men, the banter and the jesting; 
[14] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The joy I'll hardly understand 
Of perilous, wondrous questing. 

The search for something great in life, 

Some heroism in my soul, 
Even in the mud, the noise of strife 

There in our crowded hole. 

God, don't mind me, I ask of you, 
I've all the comrades, and the lark; 

And men, beside me, coming too, 
If I must go into the Dark. 

***** 

But in a house back from the street, 
Where honeysuckles with their stir 

Make the yard Spring; you'll find a sweet 
Tired woman. God, be good to her. 



US! 



"JOAN, WHO LEADS THE SOLDIERS" 

Joan, who leads the soldiers, listen to a 

prayer ; 
Joan, who heartens fighting men; and 

makes them bold to dare, 

When the word is given, side by side, as 

soldiers may, 
All the rain of hate and hell because you 

lead the way — 

You were once a little maid, in the Spring 

you had 
Pleasure in the bashful words of some 

comely lad. 

[16] 



The Drums in Our Street 

If you have not quite forgot, lend a listen- 
ing ear; 

Joan of blessed memory, bend to me and 
hear. 

Where the tallest men of all, where the 

bravest stand, 
You will see a stalwart youth, firm of eye 

and hand : 

(Joan, who leads the soldiers, listen to a 

maid !) 
You will know him by his eyes, that are not 

afraid, 

You will know him by his mouth, that is 

laughing still. 
— When from out the angry sky singing 

missiles spill, 

1 1-7 1 



The Drums in Our Street 

You that lead the soldiers, hold your blessed 

arm 
Before the face of my own lad, and keep 

him safe from harm. 



[18 



IN OUR STREET 

The war has wakened me to see 

The greatness in the clerk across the way, 

The high nobility 

In my next neighbor whom I never saw 

With anything of awe 

Until I knew her sons had gone — three 

tall 
And awkward youths. She sings about 

the hall 
And porch, at sweeping, and is happier 
Than all the town. I sometimes look at her 
And wonder, and wish that I, too, could be 

gay. 

The lanky clerk who never seemed to care 
About big things — he went. There was an air 
[I9l 



The Drums in Our Street 

Of being on great projects, in his face, 
A trace 

Of kingliness I'd not have thought of there. 
There were songs within him, though his 
lips were dumb. 

Because of these two, I, 
Though I am cowardly, try 
To keep from weeping when no letters 
come — 



Uo] 



AT WIPERS AND CALVARY 

The boy who was first to die 

For the cause they are fighting for 

Links his arm and walks with the lads 
Who are going to die in the war. 

He bled in agony 

A very long time ago. 
Now they greet him comradely, 

With eyes that newly know. 

They are brothers-in-arms in the old, 

Old war that is never done; 
So with him they jest, as they march and 
rest, 
In the snow and the mud and the sun, 
[21] 



The Drums in Our Street 

With the boy who was first to die 
In the fight to make men free. 

— For it matters little where one goes out 
At Wipers or Calvary. 



[22] 



A CASUALTY LIST 

There was always waiting in our mother's 

eyes, 
Anxiety and wonder and surmise, 
Through the long days, and in the longer, 

slow, 
Still afternoons, that seemed to never go, 
And in the evenings, when she used to sit 
And listen to our casual talk, and knit. 
And when the day was dark and rainy, and 
Not fit to be abroad in, she would stand 
Beside the window, and peer out and shiver, 
As small sleek raindrops joined to make a 

river 
That rushed, tempestuous, down the window 

pane, 

[23] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And say, "I wonder what they do in rain? 
Is it wet there in the trenches, do you 

think ? " 
And she would wonder if he had his ink 
And razor blades and toothpaste that she 

sent; 
And if he read much in his Testament, 
Or clean forgot, some mornings, as boys 

will. 
But always the one wonder in her eyes 
Was, "Is he living, living, living, still 
Alive and gay ? Or lying dead somewhere 
Out on the ground, and will they find him 

there?" 
She closed her lids each night upon that 

look 
Of waiting, as a hand might close a book 
But never change the words that were 

within. 

[24] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And when the morning noises would begin 
A new day, and a young sun touched the 

skies, 
Again she woke with waiting in her eyes. 

But that is over now. She does not read 
The lists of casualties, since that one came 
A week or two ago. There is no need. 
She's making sweaters now for other men 
And knitting just as carefully as then. 
There is no change, except that as she plies 
Her needles, swift and rhythmic as before, 
There is no waiting in our mother's eyes, 
Anxiety or wonder any more. 



25 



THE NEW PLAYFELLOW 

When we were six and seven. 

What games we used to know ! 
What stern adventures centered 

Round an arrow and a bow, 
Round sticks and stilts and marbles ! 

And, oh, the pride we knew, 
We girls who were admitted 

Into the scornful crew 

Of crimson-turbaned pirates ! 

What loyalty our clan 
Acknowledged to the leader 

And to each maid and man ! 
A league against the grown-ups, 

Our kingdom we'd defend, 
[26] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The little land of make-believe, 
Beyond the rainbow's end. 

When childhood's game was finished, 

Still in our little street 
When Spring came in, how often 

We used to laugh and meet 
While dusk turned green to blackness, 

And blotted out the blue. 
— (It's Spring ! The blind would know it, 

The air's so soft and new.) 

But I am very lonely. 

The moon goes up the hill 
And yet the street that echoed 

Is newly, strangely, still ; 
For, in a foreign country, 

(O scent of lilac breath !), 
The boys I used to play with 

Are playing now with Death. 
[27] 



EVAN 

The war is not in Europe. No. It's here 
In our parlor, underneath the chandelier 
Where Evan used to sit, and hold his head 
Within his hands, a problem there before 

him — 
He couldn't make the thing come right, he 

said. 
It was natural to watch him studying there. 

There's no one sitting now in Evan's chair; 
It's curious not to see that shock of hair 
And those hunched shoulders. No, he isn't 

dead, 
At least, we haven't heard so yet; he's 

only 

[28] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Across there, with the Engineers, and writes 
Often enough. We read them here at 

nights, 
The letters, and the natural, commonplace 
Smudged sentences make changes in each 

face. 

'T would be ingratitude to say we're lonely : 
We've all the girls here yet, and they are 

good 
And gentle, doing calmly, as they should, 
The chores of living. And we've all we 

need, 
Or maybe more, to eat and wear and read. 

We have each other and the girls. Then 

he 
Likes the excitement there, he writes, and 

we 

[29] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Must not feel worried, for he's fine and fit, 
And proud to be out there and do his bit. 
It's strange that I should mind, should fret 

or fear — 
Or feel the war is not in France, but here — 



1301 



WAR 

We'd not have had the grit to be in love 

Had not war given a shove 

To our slow cautiousness, and made us 

know 
That there is no tomorrow anywhere — 
That those who care 
Should not take chances so. 
And so we married and you went away 
To fight. And I am glad we didn't wait. 
How queer it is to think it should be hate 
And bitterness, that gave the shove 
That pushed us into love. 



[31] 



A WAR WEDDING 

My life is made of five long nights 

And five swift days, like birds whose flights 

Have taken them to where the earth 
Below them, is a small, strange thing 
Of very little worth. 

My life is made of five bright days 

And five kind nights. I heard you praise 

My beauty, in your faint, hushed tone 
That no one else has ever heard. 
And this is all I own. 

Five nights and five strange days, and then 
You died to save your fellow-men. 

I never lived until I saw 

Within your eyes that thirst and awe. 

And I shall never live again. 
[32] 



SPRING SOWS HER SEEDS 

Why are you doing it this year, Spring ? 
Why do you do this useless thing? 

Do you not know there are no men now ? 
Why do you put on an apple bough 
Buds, and in a girl's heart, thronging 
Strange emotions : fear, and longing, 

Eager flight, and shy pursuing, 
Noble thoughts for her undoing; 

Wondering, accepting, straining, 
Wistful seizing, and refraining; 

Stern denying, answering? 
— Why do you toil so drolly, Spring ? 
D [ 33 1 



The Drums in Our Street 

Why do you scheme and urge and plan 
To make a girl's heart ripe for a man, 

While the men are herded together where 
Death is the woman with whom they pair ? 

Back fall my words to my listening ear. 
Spring is deaf, and she cannot hear. 

Spring is blind, and she cannot see. 
She does not know what war may be. 

Spring goes by, with her age-old sowing 
Of seeds in each girl's heart; kind, un- 
knowing. 

And, too, in my heart, (Spring, oh, heed !) 
Now in my own has fallen a seed. 

(Spring, give over !) I cringe, afraid. 
(Though I suffer, harm no other maid !) 

[34] 



The Drums in Our Street 

I hide my eyes, a budding tree 
Is so terrible to see. 

I stop my ears, a bird song clear 
Is a dreadful thing to hear. 

Seeds in each girl's heart she goes throwing. 
Oh, the crop of pain that is growing! 



[351 



SMITH, OF THE THIRD OREGON, 
DIES 

"Autumn in Oregon is wet as Spring, 
And green, with little singings in the grass, 

And pheasants flying, 
Gold, green and red, 
Great, narrow, lovely things, 
As if an orchid had snatched wings. 
There are strange birds like blots against a sky 

Where a sun is dying. 
Beyond the river where the hills are blurred 
A cloud, like the one word 
Of the too-silent sky, stirs, and there stand 

Black trees on either hand. 

Autumn in Oregon is wet and new 
As spring, 

[36] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And puts a fever like Spring's, in the cheek 
That once has touched her dew — 
And it puts longing too 
In eyes that once have seen 
Her season-flouting green, 

And ears that listened to her strange birds 
speak. 

"Autumn in Oregon — I'll never see 
Those hills again, a blur of blue and rain 
Across the old Willamette. Til not stir 
A pheasant as I walk, and hear it whirr 
Above my head, an indolent, trusting 

thing. 
When all this silly dream is finished here, 
The fellows will go home, to where there 

fall 
Rose-petals over every street, and all 
The year is like a friendly festival. 
[371 



The Drums in Our Street 

But I shall never watch those hedges drip 
Color, nor see the tall spar of a ship 
In our old harbor. — They say that I am 
dying, 
Perhaps that's why it all comes back again ; 
Autumn in Oregon, and pheasants flying — " 



[38] 



THE MOVIES IN FRANCE 

You give me home : the pepper trees 
Shaking a little in the breeze, 
And rows of swaying palms — I close 
My eyes before I look at those, 
Like praying before food. The high 
Great palms like swords against the sky, 
The drooping ones that curve and bend, 
Are each to homesick eyes, a friend. 
The great gray hills of home I see 
Before me lie alluringly, 
And sunny towns, like those I know. 
Familiar buildings, row on row, 
A house in shining cool concrete 
Like one that stands across the street 
From ours, at home ! The acacia stirred 
The old way then. My eyes are blurred. 

[39] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The tale? I do not care or know 
What girl and lover come and go 
Beneath those trees, upon those hills 
What kiss enthralls, or murder thrills 
The rest to grieving or delight 
— For I am home, am home to-night ! 



uo] 



YOUNG DEATH 

Men always said that Death was old, 
A slow, bent man with wrinkled hand 

Who with a shining sickle, stern and cold 
Went reaping through the land. 

But now we have learned bitterly 
They only spoke with ignorant tongue. 

This year has touched our eyes and now we 
see 
That Death is fair and young. 

With other drilling lads he stands 

Shoulder to shoulder in the street, 
As stern his mouth as theirs, as quick his 
hands, 
As eager his young feet. 
[41] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Above their heads there hang the prayers 
Of mothers. Boyish hearts beat bold. 

Ah, hardly can we tell his face from 
theirs. . . . 
Would God that Death were old! 



[42] 



SCHOOLMATES 

He came a thousand miles to spend an hour 

With me before his unit went to France. 

I saw that he was changed in that first 
glance. 

This boy whom I had known at college 
had 

A different look — not sad, 

But thoughtful. There was not the old- 
time fear 

Of folks, but he was shyer, even so, 

Than I remembered him a year ago. 

His eyes were very clear 

I think from being 

The long days in the open; 

From early sleep, perhaps from early rising, 
[43] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And then from seeing 
That young recruit so near, 
The gay lad, Death, who marches with the 
men. 

"I'm very glad you came," I said, and 

then 
Asked after the old crowd. "A score or 

more 
Are killed. Dick's in the aviation corps. 
And Roger's flying. Freckles had flat feet 
And Bud was under weight." It was a 

treat 
To hear the way he cussed out every one. 
"I haven't heard from Tom for everso. 
And Tuttle married that Miss Marsh, you 

know." 
And then he told me of their food, a jest 
About a sergeant — and that he liked best 

[44i 



The Drums in Our Street 

Of all, the feeling that one was part, at 

last, 
After one's puny life, of something vast. 

But when the hour was up, we said good-by 

And shook hands, friendlywise, and then he 
stooped 

And kissed me once, as very hungry men 

Can seize at food, and then he crushed his 
small 

Cap in his hands, and, head down, blind, 
pellmell 

Groped for the open door and somehow 
went. 

Now Spring is here, and streams and leaf- 
buds swell 

. . . I never knew before what April meant. 



[45 



THE DEAD SON 

In an old country, 

Far and far away, 
A woman went a-weeping 

On a fresh Spring day. 



A woman went a-weeping, 
For she heard birds singing, 

And under the hill 

There was new grass springing. 

"He loved the new grass, 
And all the birds," she said; 

"He loved the sparrows, 
And threw them bread." 
[46] 



The Drums in Our Street 

(Spring in the bush and tree, 

In her heart pain), 
She wept for her young lad 
By bloody hands slain. 

She wept for her son 
Who had harmed no man, 

Who must die for the dark world, 
Fulfilling an old plan. 

She was but a woman, 
And what could she know 

Of God's wise weavings ? 

"That he should have to go ! 

"My lad, whom I needed, 

Whom I love, night and day!" 

She said. And the birds sang 
And all the world was gay. 

[47] 



The Drums in Our Street 

To know that he waited 

In God's own town 
Was little comfort to her. 

Slowly down 

The road to the village, 
With her sobs to smother, 

All on a Spring day- 
Went Mary, His mother. 

$ * * $ 3s 

Now o'er a dark world 

War holds sway, 
And there is sound of sobbing, 

This fresh Spring day. 

To all weeping mothers 

She bends low; 
She stretches out her hands to them, 

And says, "I know." 
[48] 



SOUNDS 

When Ypres burned, I watched the cloud 
That glowed above, and hung, 

Pierced from the flaming towns below 
By hungry tongue. 

There must have been — I have forgot — 
The booming sound of war — 

/ never knew a nightingale 
Could sing so clear before. 



49 



"HIGHLANDERS, FIX BAYONETS" 

His mother never liked that record played. 
He liked it, Don, he always seemed to be 
Putting that record on, and listening 
As if there were some one whispering at his 

shoulder, 
Standing there, slyly whispering, in his ear 
While the record whirred and the song 

filled all the room. 
And after the sound ceased, he still would 

stand, 
The sunlight on his yellow hair, and dream 
As lads do; and then set the needle and 
Hear the whole record thunder through 

once more. 
It was a gallant-sounding thing, that one, 
[50] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And though I am an old man and should 

be 
Leaving such things to my grandchildren now, 
I liked the manly sound of it myself. 



"Listen, grandfather," he would say, his 

voice 
Was changing that last summer. We would 

wait. 
A whirring sound came first; and then the 

sharp 
Command rang out, in a clear, rousing 

tone 
Startling, as if upon a battlefield 
A harsh commander gave his men the word. 
"Highlanders, fix bayonets!" — And then 

a hush, 
And after that the song: 



The Drums in Our Street 

A loud, full-throated, wondrous fighting- 
song, 
Line after line of hurrying words to put 
New fury into tired fighting-men. 

"Terror of death in that blinding run — " 

Yes, but if there was blood, too, in the song, 
And lust of shedding it, why, that's what 

war is ; 
It can't be helped. I always told her that. 

" Look to the shields of the conquering foe, 
Crouching again for another blow ! 
But see the rush of a hundred clans ! 
Fight as you did at Preston Pans — 
Highlanders, fix bayonets ! " 

I could see 
The thrill go running through Don at the 

words. 
He always seemed to like that record played. 
[52] 



The Drums in Our Street 

She didn't, though, but womenfolk are queer. 
She shuddered when the thirsty words 

sprang out. 
She seemed to see the battlefield, the men 
Running to thrust their bayonets through 

the bodies 
Of other laughing, swaying, shouting men, 
She told me. They've too much imagination, 
Women. 

She'd watch that bright-haired laddie 

stand, 
A sort of premonition in her eyes, 
A fear, the kind of fear that Mary might 
Have had, once, watching the young Christ 

at play. 
They are a strange race, mothers, so unlike 
The rest of all us common folks that we 
Can only stand aside and wonder at them. 

[ 53 i 



The Drums in Our Street 

She used to ask the boy for other songs 
Half guessing at the names, not really caring 
What record was put on, if only that one 
Would be forgotten for a little while. 



If she were ever in the other room 

And heard the strident bars of it beginning, 

That curious look would come into her 
face; 

Her hands would fumble at the kitchen 
work; 

And, if she had been speaking to a neigh- 
bor, 

Her words would slacken and repeat them- 
selves, 

Until the record stopped, and she was freed. 

And when the stern command rang out, 
each time 

[54] 



The Drums in Our Street 

She cringed, as if some general had spoken 
Aloud there in her well-kept house, and 

brought 
His war into her quiet, sunny kitchen. 



But when war really broke, and he came 

asking, 
With all his bright youth burning in his 

eyes 
To a flame that made her own eyes blind 

to see, 
Proud through her frightened tears, she was 

the first 
Of all the stricken mothers in our town 
To say, "Yes, go, my boy, and God go 

too, 
And keep you brave and trusty at your 

post, 

155) 



The Drums in Our Street 

And keep you safe for me to hold again 
When we have done our duty, and have 

brought 
Peace back to this poor world." And till 

he went 
She never faltered, but her head was high, 
Her hands were busy for him. When he 

said 
"Good-by" the last day, at our little 

station, 
She laughed out as she kissed him, smiling 

still 
Until his train was hidden by the bend. 



She kept her courage through the heavy 

months ; 
And when no letters came, she was the one 
To find new reasons for each fresh delay. 

ts6] 



The Drums in Our Street 

She kept her courage when the message 

came, 
The wire from Washington, that he was 

killed. 
And when we saw his full name in the 

long 
Pitiful roll of honor of the dead, 
— I mind his name came halfway down 

the list, 
It was between a Shehan and a Shultz, 
With "Killed in Action" written over all, 
"He did his duty to the end," she said, 
"There is no prouder death than this of 

his; 
He died to make the countries all more 

safe 
For women and children, like the lad he 

was, 
Thoughtful of others weaker than himself." 

[57] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And that was all she said, but afterward, 
With frightened sobbing catching at her 
breath, 
She broke the shining record into bits. 

And I have never heard it played again. 
But sometimes, when we've music of an 

evening 
I vaguely wish, among the softer strains 
Of this one's waltz, or that one's minuet 
That I could hear once more the thundering 

swell, 
The strong, harsh, sudden vigor of that 

song. 

There was something in its swing to stir 

men's blood. 
I liked the manly sound of it myself. 



58 1 



"LET'S PRETEND" 

I name my brothers in a prayer, 

Who are upon the sea, 
Lynn with brown and tumbled hair 

Lloyd and Deak, the three. 
O the days we whittled boats 

And sailed them on the sea ! 

The sea was running past our door, 

A mountain brook and clear, 
And little bays we scooped and shaped 

To keep our fleets from fear. 
Each bay we named; each ship we named, 

And launched it with a cheer. 

O little whittled boats that went 
So slowly round the bend ! 

[59] 






The Drums in Our Street 

O happy days of make-believe ! 

— When will this anguish end ? 
Tears in my eyes ? I am not now 

So good at "Let's Pretend." 



[60 



FOR A YOUNG SOLDIER 

He laughed and died ; 

And something died to me 
In greening countryside, 

In grass and bud and tree. 
Color died from the world, 

And all the sky was dim; 
And something in each soul 

I meet, died, too, with him. 



[61 



IN A MIRROR 

My eyes are very blue tonight 
And very big with questioning; 
For love has come to me, that bright 
And unapproachable strange thing 
That touches unsuspecting men 
And heedless maids : and not again 
Shall the old childish laughter go 
Leaping from mouth to eyes and sit 
There like a child that mischievous 
Climbs triumphing to a perch and will 
Not be dislodged, though hard one tries. 

No laughter now is in my eyes. 
My mouth has other things to know 
[62] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Than childish games, and secret places 
Where the first, long, wood violets grow. 
My face is like all women's faces 
Not like a girl's face any more : 
There are more shadows in it, and 
It is soft, vague, like a new land 
With rain mists over, the outline 
Not sharp, as if the day were fine. 

To other maids, in other days 

Love came not in so strange a guise, 

So sudden and so perilous ; 

For in the moment that we know 

The harbor of each other's eyes 

War calls, and you must go, must go : 

And after, I know well, strange new 

Fears, wishes, hopes will hurry through 

My thinking while I wait for you. 

I had not dreamed it would be so 

[6 3 ] 



The Drums in Our Street 

That love would come, but still, today, 
Like one who hardly understands, 
I welcome, in the same warm way, 
This love, that holds death in its hands. 

My eyes are very blue tonight 
And very big with questioning; 
For love has come to me, that bright 
And unapproachable strange thing. 



[6 4 ] 



PURGED BY WAR 

We have put by our littleness : 
Envy and malice form no more 

The greater part of all that mass 
That our hearts have in store. 

The spiteful whisperings fall and cease; 

Our petty quarrels are dropped and lost. 
We have put by our littleness, 

— But oh, at what a cost ! 



[65] 



ON A TROOP TRAIN 

In through the train window comes the 
scent of sagebrush; 
And I remember riding out with you — 
Sagebrush, sagebrush, violet and purple, 
Gray under noon sun, and silver ■ under 
dew. 



Riding out together down the gold arroyo, 
Riding to the rim-rock, climbing up a 
trail, 
Riding when the sunset is pricking out the 
river ; 
Far from ranch or bunk-house, or any 
friendly hail. 

[66] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Have you forgotten all our rides together, 
Creaking leather, clinking spurs, range 
sky blue, 
Startled rabbits flashing across the trail 
before us — 
Would sudden scent of sagebrush mean 
anything to you ? 



[671 



THE GREAT WAR 

Youth, crucified to save the world, 
Hangs on the cross, and to the sky 

Utters, while thunderbolts are hurled, 
A fearful cry. 

Who has betrayed him? Each one asks, 
Low, "Is it I?" 



[68] 



FIRE OF THE SUN 

Passionate children of the sun — 
You are one and I am one. 
A piece of his fire burns still in you; 
And in me, too. 



Lower your lids and veil your eyes. 
Let us pretend that we are wise, 
That we are very wise, and that you 
Can smother that fire, and that I can, too. 

Let us forget that we are young, 
And have wanting in us. Let us go 
Walking cautiously and slow 
All these folk among. 

[6 9 ] 



The Drums in Our Street 

(Fire of the sun, smother, smoulder!) 
Let us pretend that we are older; 
And that we are calm, and do not know. 
(Fire of the sun, burn low !) 

Let us laugh and let us sing, 
That will be a pleasant thing. 

Let us look at life, and weigh, 
And scrutinize it well, and say, 
"We think we will not buy today." 

But war, war, war ! — 

Let us flame now before 

It quenches us. Let us flame high 

Ere it is on us ; you and I ! 



[70 



IF HE CAME NOW 

If he came now ! 

My heart would be like a once quiet street, 
Hung with gay lanterns on a fete night, wild 
With singing ! And my heart would be a 

child 
Sleepily waking to a kiss, then, flinging 
Sleep from it, springing 
With all too ready feet, 
Out of the night, into the world again 
And finding that its toys were all once more 
There where it left them, waiting on the 

floor 
To be played with again. My heart would 

be 
An opened book filled full with witchery, 
[7i] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Filled, too, with pain, 

An opened book that had been left too long 
Upon a dusty shelf. It would be a song 
In a young mouth. And it would be buds, 

too, 
Opening under the moon, and shivering at 

the dew, 
But liking it. And it would be a flame, 
Red in the night. I used to be glad when 

he came, 
But not so very glad — because I thought 
That I would always have him. . . . Then 

war caught 
Him from me suddenly, and bore him out 
To be where danger is ; and killed my 

doubt, 
My hesitation and half fears. Ah, how 
I would run to welcome him, if he came 



now! 



[72] 



THE CHINQUAPIN TRAIL 

Thimbleberry, salmonberry, mountain ash 
and chinquapin, 
Hard-hack, black cap, elderberry blue, 
Blackberry, huckleberry, rhododendron, 
sword fern, 
Wooly manzanita — To be riding through 
The heavy brush about the trail, at dusk 

once more ! 
When all the gold is spilling on the sky's 
wide floor ! 

Indian plum and squaw grass, paint brush 
and mountain balm, 
Dwarf maple, buck brush, once so com- 
monplace ! 

Spiraea and syringa, chaparral and hazel, 

[73] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Maple leaves that tremble, and the great 

black trace 
Of a fir across the sky, and, quick as fear 
Drops the dark upon the trail. . . . And 

now I'm here — 

Far from whisk of chipmunk or rush of 

furry gray-squirrel, 
Chinquapin and squaw grass are a half 

a world away ! 
The sun goes down on No Man's Land, 

and dusk is on the trenches, 
And there's never a cow pony, at the end 

of day, 
To go with down the canon, with the 

mountain shrubs around me. 
But some day I'll go back and ride, and 

greet them all : 
Chinquapin and squaw grass and grape and 

chaparral ! 

[74] 



ON AN OLD BATTLEFIELD 

Two foes who slew 

Each other, lay 

In slow decay; 

From them there grew 

This poppy which I pluck today. 

Here where I keep a rendezvous 

With you 

The hatred of two men 

Leads round to love again. 

All hate 

To love leads, soon or late. 



[75] 



THE RECRUITING STATION AT THE 
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 

The two white lions of the library 

Who guard by night and day the doors 

that lead 
Into the house where beauty waits our 

need; 
Who guard — and know not to what end, 

for whom — 
All the world's wisdom in a narrow room — 
The two white lions of the library 
Look out and wonder at the thing they see ; 
They who have known but students, shabby, 

lone; 
They who have known 
But poets, eager, tense, with a rapt air 
[76] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Looking beyond the gray crowds, and the 

white 
Great doors, to a far perfect goal somewhere ; 
Women, alight 

With thanks, for the holiday from little cares 
That in this house is theirs : 
And old, calm men, who find no better thing 
In life, than a dead book's companioning 
When all else fails ; 

And children, coming to read fairy-tales ; 
And all the weary ones who wish to spend 
A piece of life for dreams. ... It is at an 

end, 
That tranquil time. And now, all the 

strange day, 
From those high pedestals where they must 

stay, 
The two white lions of the library 
Look out in wonder at the thing they see. 
[77] 



THE GENEROUS GIVER 

We two — and marriage — how absurd it 

seems ! 
Like giving a child a rare and costly vase 
To keep among its other toys. We two ! 
Marriage seemed something made for grave, 

wise folk; 
Not for us happy wild things, wilful, gay, 
And always on a wondrous holiday. 

We called upon a friend one day last week; 
She was engaged, and showed us all her 

linen ; 
Smooth household things, that made us 

slyly look 
With deprecating humor at each other. 
[78] 



The Drums in Our Street 

We two — and tablecloths ! They're not 

for us ; 
We are so far from tablecloths ! What 

have 
We two to do with tablecloths, and with 
Guest towels of florid, bulging, fat initials ? 
She and her man are serious-minded folk. 
But we are like two children playing house 
Who fill material needs with make-believe. 
There are too many magic things in life 
To give oneself, a voluntary slave 
To serve a house, a table and a chair. 
Houses are made to use, to flout and leave 
When the road calls and sunsets are abroad, 
When the sea calls, and rain is in the wind. 

Our marriage is a taking hands and running 
Into the sunrise — not a being ruled 
By a kind house with disapproving shutters. 
[791 



The Drums in Our Street 

But even so, how strange to think of being 
Always together, with no wagging tongues ; 
But with the world permitting us to kiss ! 
This mythical and dread and sacred room 
Called marriage, where these grown-ups 

enter in, 
Today they let us, unreproved, explore, 
Two laughing children, curious, wondering. 

Though all our work was toward it, all our 

dreams, 
We two — and marriage — how unreal it 

seems ! 
To war, who, ere its time, has given youth 
Gifts, generously, prematurely kind, 
Not ordering impatient youth to wait — 
Who, with those bloody hands that deal out 

death, 
Deals love as well, we give our happy thanks. 
[80] 



THE GAY LAD DEATH 

The gay lad Death 
Takes stride for stride 

With the marching men 
He walks beside. 

As their shoulders touch, 
In the bitter weather 

Death and our own lads 
March together. 

The gay lad Death — 
He sings to the men; 

And each man's thoughts 
Turn back again 

To his own small house, 
To his own far town; 
[81] 



The Drums in Our Street 

To the girl he loves 
In her Sunday gown. 

The words they said 

That hurt us sore 
In the years of peace, 

They are sorry for. 

The gay lad sings. 

He sang on the day, 
(O the memories !) 

When they went away. 

It was he when they left, 
(O the marching feet !) 

Who put in their kiss 
So much of sweet. 

The gay lad Death 
Is very kind : 
[82] 



The Drums in Our Street 

He makes pictures 
In their mind 



On the elm by the porch 
And the rug by the chair, 

Of the shine of the lamplight 
In our hair. 



The gay lad Death, 

Of this, of this, 
He makes his song, 

And of that last kiss. 



We women have much 
To thank him for. 

He sings to the men 
As they march to war 

[83] 



The Drums in Our Street 

With a lad's voice sweet 

And tremulous. 
It is he who makes them 

Think of us. 



[8 4 ] 



RICHARD LOVELACE AND RICHARD 
SMITH 

Lucasta, on the day when he left you, to go 

to the wars, 
Your sweetheart, Richard Lovelace, 
Did your heart beat chokingly, when he 

whispered those words to you ? 
Were the quick tears tangling your lashes, 
And blinding your terror-stricken eyes, when 

he said, 

" Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 
That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
To war and arms I fly. 

" True, a new mistress now I chase, 
The first foe in the field ; 

[85 ] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And with a stronger faith embrace 
A sword, a horse, a shield. 

" Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 
Loved I not Honor more." 



Yesterday, when Dick Smith, who grew up 

next door to me, went to the front, 
He did not bend down from a jeweled 

saddle 
To take the last kiss ; 
He leaned out from a window in the day 

coach, 
Crowding past pushing heads and khaki 

shoulders, 
And kissed me, 
And, over the noise of frantic farewells 

trampling each other, he shouted : 
[86] 



The Drums in Our Street 

"So long, kiddie! Be good to yourself! 
I won't come back 
Till we've hanged the kaiser 
To one of his own linden trees !" 

He didn't say it as poetically as your Richard 

did, 
But he meant exactly the same thing. 



[87] 



A GIRLS' WAR SEWING CLASS 

My three brothers have taken train 
To make the mad world safe again. 

My three brothers have kissed our mother 
(A son is more to lose than a brother) 

And given their sweethearts one bright 

glance 
And gone to France, and gone to France; 

And with them one who, I knew well, 
Loved me, but was too shy to tell. 

Now there is war like a shroud of black 
Over the world. And Spring comes back, 
[88] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And makes our hearts beat uselessly, 
Mine and theirs who sew with me. 

What use now to be young and fair — 
And new grass under the plum trees there ? 

What use now our round breasts swelling ? 
There are no love words for telling, 

Only words for speaking of battles. 

A gust comes swift and the window rattles 

And each girl starts, as she heard the sound 
Of a bullet pushing a man to the ground. 

What use now at dusk to be waiting ? 
There are no youths for our mating. 

What use crocuses in the meadow ? 
We walk under the shroud's black shadow. 
[89] 



The Drums in Our Street 

In our street the spring wind blowing, 
Hurt at our silence, all unknowing, 

Wonders why we do not answer. 
April sways to us, the dancer, 

Never guessing why no more 

We listen for her foot on the floor. 

Where girls' voices used to mingle 
In a light and merry jingle 

With a youth's hoarse grumbling tone, 
In our town one hears alone, 

All its length from street to street, 
Only women's voices sweet. 

What use now to be wild and eager? 
Pain is common, cheer is meager; 
[90] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Heartbreak is no luxury, 

Rich and poor its look may see. 

What use now for Spring to come peering 
In our window, calling, jeering ? 

We sit and sew, in a girl's soft din, 
Things for our loves to lie wounded in. 

We cut and shape and sew and baste 
Smiling, with no courage to waste, 

And over the hills new grass comes fine 
As a baby's hair in the soft sunshine. 

On a bough by the window buds grow fat, 
It breaks our hearts to look at that. 

The window wears a long black shawl, 
But we have never had love at all. 
[91] 



The Drums in Our Street 

There is woe in the eyes of the soldier'* 

bride, 
But she had a man to lie beside 

For five sweet nights, and she has a ring 
And a shaken kiss for remembering. 

But we at the threshold cannot see, 
We only wonder what Life may be, 

We who have not yet known the way 
Love and April burn and sway 

And lift their victims then once more 
Into life — we have no store 

Of memories to torture and 
Heal with the same careless hand. 

Only little memories of 
The awkward overtures of love, 
[92] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The first strange word, and wistful glance 
That make a girl's heart cower and dance. 

Now, we must forget until 

The war is done and the world is still. 

It is we who keep the ceaseless round ; 
For Life is a clock that must be wound. 

We could bear each heavy thing, 
If there were no Spring, no Spring ! 

We could ply our needle and thread 
Calmly, if each bird were dead, 

But Spring's cruelty heaps the measure, 
And we must watch the young sun's pleas- 
ure 

In the hungry earth. I think 
Violets are on the brink 
[93 1 



The Drums in Our Street 

Of the churchyard hill. I see 
One red flower on an apple tree. 

And the wind comes shyly, sweet 
Home, still laughing, to our street. 

While we sit and sew, through chatter and 

din, 
Things for our loves to be dying in. 



[94] 



TENEMENT WINDOWS 

The hawker brings geraniums, 

And stands beneath the windows; 
High up in the tenements they hear his cry, 
"Geraniums, geraniums! 
Red and white geraniums ! 
Pink and fresh geraniums!" 
They straggle down to buy. 

The hawker brings geraniums : 
He pulls his cart up closer; 
The windows in the dull slum street are 
crowded, black. 

"Geraniums, geraniums ! 
Red and white geraniums ! 
The hawker brings geraniums," 
And spring's come back. 

[95] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The hawker brings geraniums. 

He's brought them many Aprils, 
But never have they blossomed where such 
strange companions are : 
Geraniums, geraniums, 
They'll grace the unwashed windows 
Beside a dingy service flag that has a dusty 
star! 



t96] 



THE WAR BULLETIN 

Not ink, but blood — so they, 

The bulletins, are made — each word, each 

line, 
Each letter in the lists — . One sudden day- 
Last week, of which I do not like to think, 
It was your heart's blood made the ink. 
Today — God keep me silent — it was mine. 



97 1 



THE BIRDS BETWEEN THE 
TRENCHES 

The birds between the trenches 
Look down on death and sing 

As blithely as they might have done 
In western fields in Spring. 

They lavish all their treasure, 

Nor save a single tune. 
They know the ears that hear them 

Will hear no bird notes soon — 



[98] 



A CALIFORNIAN IN FRANCE 

Here in the trench's damp and cold, 
I think of my own land's blue and gold. 

Blue, blue, April blue — 

A drift of white, and a rift of blue, 
A dream of white, and a gleam of blue, 

Blue, blue, blue ! 

Gold, gold, poppies' gold, 

A flare of gold, and a glare of gold, 
A hint of green, and a glint of gold, 

Gold, gold, gold! 

When this war is over, then 
Poppies I shall tread again. 
[991 



The Drums in Our Street 

See in the old careless way 
Blue of sky and blue of bay. 

Only Death's threat'ning hand can open 

eyes 
To beauty in familiar hills and skies. 



[ioo] 



A SONG OF SEVERAL YOUNG MEN 

"I'm having the time of my life," 
He writes, "Don't worry for me." 

For it took danger and strife 
To make him free. 

War gave him the freedom and friends 
That poverty cheated him of. 

Shells, do not drop near his post! 
Bullets, fly safely above! 

There's a long line of men for your prey; 
There are men who have lived more, to 
hit. 
He has found his youth now. Shrapnel, 
guns, 
Let him enjoy it a bit. 
Hoi] 



RED SUNDAY 

In the Russian Revolution 

Between the singing multitudes 
The crimson coffins slowly sway, 

As through strange streets the newly slain 
Take their triumphant way. 

These scarce-cold hands beneath the red 
Of protest and of passion, now 

Have been fulfilling many a dead 
Man's century-old vow. 

And while the singing thousands throng 
And watch the mighty dead go by, 

Beneath the pall the silent mouths 
Join in the joyous cry. 
[102] 



The Drums in Our Street 

When heroes are borne past our eyes 
Who reached and righted twisted years, 

In this their righteous victory 
How is there time for tears? 

The crimson coffins proud go by 

With songs on either hand. 
With this red coin a people buy 

New life for an old land. 



103] 



MY CHUM 

I'm not his sweetheart, God, I'm just his 
chum, 
We hadn't got as far as loving yet. 
We're both so young. If fighting had not 
come 
So soon. — But then it did, and now he's 

there 
In France. And I'm here making you 
this prayer 
To put with those his mother's sending you. 
(Perhaps she wouldn't like it if she knew.) 
Guard him, and, God, don't let him quite 
forget. 

His mother wouldn't like it if she knew, 
Or mine, if she should ever chance to guess 
[104] 



The Drums in Our Street 

I'm speaking of him every night to you. 
They'd say we're quite too young to 

understand. 
But that day, when he went, he took my 
hand 
And while they talked, he asked me with 

his eyes. 
I answered too. Perhaps it wasn't wise. 
And something made the handshake a 
caress. 

And still I wear my hair down in a braid 
And study Algebra. His letters come; 
I open each half hoping, half afraid ; 
But there is never any reason why 
The rest mayn't have them just as soon 
as I. 
Still, though the family reads them, never 
seeing 

[105] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Between the lines, I know! and can't help 
being 
Proud, proud ! God, keep him safe today 
— My Chum. 



[106] 



THE LITTLE TRAIL TO DEATH 

There's a trail up the mountain, there's a 

trail to the lake; 
There's a trail to the deep woods I long 

today to take 
Where the wind goes, and the ferns stand, 

and the pine needles red 
Make a low, soft pillow for a man's tired 

head. 

There's a trail up the hillside, there's a trail 

to the glade, 
Where the trout swim slow in the calm, cool 

shade 
Of the still pool. And the trees hide, in 

their sea-swaying boughs, 
[107] 



The Drums in Our Street 

A bird's hope, and a bird's fears, and a 
bird's brown house. 

There's a trail to the lakeside, there's a 

trail to the hill 
Where the moss holds the footprints, and 

the high ferns are still, 
Where the beech stands, and the pine towers, 

and the water maples take 
The color from the sunset, and where alders 

shake. 

There's a trail to the seaside, there's a trail 

to the hill 
There are trails to the world's end I long to 

follow still. 
— But here as in a trench I watch; before 

new dawns shall break, 
It may be it's the little trail to death that 

I will take. 

[108] 



WOUNDED RED CROSS NURSE 

Little white body of mine, so broken, 

Little white body that tried to be brave, 

Lying, without any thought or emotion, 
On a long bed like a grave, 

On a long hospital cot in the stillness; 

Supple soft body, all bandaged and strange, 
How you have run in the sun on the hillside, 

Raced on the range ! 

How you have danced with the leaves in 
the forest, 
Where with the other swift nymphs you 
belong ! 

[109] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Joyous, wild body, I mourn for your still- 
ness — 
You that were song, 

When out of the swathings, grotesque and 
uncomely, 
I smile as the men I have nursed so long, 
do, 
As my drowsy eyes gaze down the mounds 
and the hillocks 
And the folds in the sheets that are you. 

I am too weak now to fear or be grieving; 

That will come later, and tears for you then, 
Little white body, who cannot believe yet 

You will never be dancing again. 



Ino] 



PART II 

THE DRUMS IN OUR SQUARE 



THE DRUMS IN OUR SQUARE 

High dreams fill all the dusk-hung air, 

We all are dreamers in our Square : 

We put a word upon a word, 

Like children's blocks to make a tower, 

To make a tower where we may stand 

And snatch at heaven with our hand; 

Or we put color carelessly 

On color, and their hearts are stirred, 

These careless others', for an hour. 

We all are dreamers in our Square; 
There is no sound but laughter there. 
We win to gladness, win to mirth, 
We are the glad ones of the earth, 
Because the thing we dream, we do; 
1 [113] 



The Drums in Our Street 

All men dream dreams, our dreams are true : 
For the work we love our hands are free. 
We, too, create, and are deity. 

But what is this sound today that comes ? 
Here in our Square — the Drums y the Drums ? 



i «4i 



LAST NIGHT 

Last night they all were in our studio 
Drinking a little from the common cup 
Of hope, Bob said, he writes that kind of 

verse, 
The kind that's made of words, the other 

kind 
Is made of feelings, with words put up like 

screens 
To hide them but to let us know they're 

there. 

They drank a toast to you and me, and to 
Our happiness. They drank it standing, 
and 

["Si 



The Drums in Our Street 

You made a speech, pride shining from your 

eyes 
And joy, because you'd made me care for 

you. 

And I sat by, and laughed, and was happy 
too. 

"She's like a kitten, little and comforting, 
Contented playing with a spool and string," 
Said Bobby, "she's the happiest thing, I'll 
swear, 

In all New York!" Bill said, "Or any- 
where." 

It was so true of me, I couldn't speak. 
They laughed to see the red come in my 
cheek. 

[116] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And then the talk went drifting out among 
The floating flotsam-jetsam of the Square ; 
Who'd fallen in love with whom, and who'd 

been where; 
And Torwald's picture that had just been 

hung, 
And what the publishers had wanted for 
Jem's book, — and then they talked about 

the war. 

— Last night they all were in our studio 
And talked about the war — how could I 

know 
That ere another night, you'd have to go! 



[ii7l 



ENLISTED 

Two weeks with you — two crazy weeks 
Of joy at being alive, and being 
Everything to each other, freeing 
Each other from the bonds that hold 
The spirit in from being bold 
And ranging heaven unafraid. 
For two wild, holy, reckless weeks 
We laughed together — then war speaks. 

War speaks, and calls your name, and you 
Lift your head and are listening, 
Loose my arms from your neck that cling, 
And with all the ragged and reckless crew 
Of the artists and poets and dreamers we knew 
Down the long street you are marching — 



you ! 



[118 



The Drums in Our Street 

And I who have never learned to see 
Your coat and hat on the old hall tree, 
Your tangling ties on my dresser here, 
Your strange huge boots by my little shoes 
Without a shamed and proud confusion. 
I must see these now, and be stabbed anew 
By each thing that ever was worn by you. 

I must hear the hurdy gurdy's groan 
Outside of our window, and stand alone 
And listen to all the tunes you know 
Where I stood with you a week ago. 
And every night again I must face 
The others without you, chatting gay 
At the artists' little eating-place. 
How can I live these long hours through ? 
Day after endless aching day ? 

But oh, I am proud, am proud of you! 
[119] 



THE BROKEN PROMISE 

You and I touched each other's hands 
And stood listening. 
Life promised us so much, 
Bent low and whispered, 
And promised us so much. 
Then war 

Put his large, stubby hand 
Over her mouth 
And drew her head back 
Before she had quite finished promising; 
War has forced her to her knees 
And her eyes have fear in them, 
But you and I do not think of her danger. 
We only grieve 

Because now she cannot give us 
Those wonderful things 
Of which she whispered in our ears. 
[I20] 



A GREENWICH VILLAGE TEA ROOM 

The dingy basement restaurant 
Where the artists used to come — 

The little smoky room 
Where the artists sat 
Blowing dreams from their cigarettes, 
Shaping them with their lips 
And watching them rise and die with equal 
languor — 

The little smoky room 
That has known tragedies 
In many young men's eyes, 
Has seen births, 
And deaths — 

[121] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The little smoky room 
Is empty now — 

On a spring night, 

War sauntered into it 

Casually, 

And the young men linked their arms in 

his, 
And marched out through the door 
Singing, and laughing, and jesting with their 

new comrade. 



[122] 



AT THE GRAND CENTRAL STATION 

I smiled as I said good-by — you knew 
As you watched my face, it was hard to do. 

You helped me laugh, you helped me jest, 
Till the big clock called, and you went with 
the rest. 

Then I turned away, and jostled the others, 
Sisters of soldiers, sweethearts, mothers, 

Fathers of sailors, friends they'd known. 
And I walked home, alone, alone. 

And the station was empty, and all the 
street. 

[123 ] 



The Drums in Our Street 

And I passed the place where we used to 
meet. 

And the town was empty, and full of gloom ; 
And the Square was empty — and oh, our 
room ! 



[124 



"ANYTHING YOU WANT" 

" — Anything you want" — those were his 

words, 
"Buy anything you want, dear" — and 

that look, 
The look of some one's father, in his eyes, 
The look of giving playthings to a child — 
I cannot quite forget his words, his look. 
"Buy anything you want" — his train was 

gone 

And I left standing by the station door, 
Alone with the five dollars in my hand. 
I, only, knew how hard he must have 

tried, 
To save that folded bill, from needful things, 
For me to buy a trinket with. He knew 

[125] 



The Drums in Our Street 

So well, the way I loved a bit to spend 
For foolish things I never should have craved. 
"Buy anything you want" — the train was 

gone. 
Those words — the last he said to me on 

earth, 
So like him always — "Anything you 



Today the notice came that he was dead, 
My husband-lover. Dead — my own, my 

own. 
And ever since, the traffic in the street 
In all its magic rhythm seems to taunt 
And stab me, like a well-loved song repeat 
Those words. I walk alone, unheeded, 

home; 
And dusk comes gayly. — "Anything you 



want" — 



[126] 



A SOLDIER'S WIFE 

I looked out through the window to the 

street 
The lights made silver and the rain made 

black, 
To see at last if you were coming back. 
But there were only other people there, 
Not you, not you ! My eyes searched 

everywhere, 
But no one's shoulders had that reckless 

swing 
And no one's hat was tilted quite so much 
Too far. The dusk had laid its wistful 

touch 
Upon each tree within the little park. 
It is hard to be alone when it grows dark 
[127] 



The Drums in Our Street 

On the first, strange, wild days of any 

Spring. 
Spring is a pitiless season — gay and sweet 
But very pitiless. — I saw a pair 
Of lovers walking, speaking, unaware 
That some one at a window up above 
Was hating them because they were in love. 
And there were soldiers passing, proud to be 
Soldiers, and not unwilling we should see. 
A girl went rushing by, with something 

warm 
In her smiling, and with books beneath 

her arm, 
A group of small boys loitered past, and 

then 
In eager, confidential chat, two men; 
Then some one disappointed and alone, 
Whose business hadn't gone the way it 

should. 

[128] 



The Drums in Our Street 

The secrets shoulders tell ! when if we could 
We would silence them as firmly as we do 
Our mouths and eyes. How wary mine 

have grown ! 
Then came two shoppers, in their high tense 

jargon 
Each boasting to the other of a bargain ; 
Then others ; women, men, a child or two ; 
A poet with his hat off, striding out 
Against the world, his every step a shout; 
And people in the distance, who, I knew 
Were people, but who seemed like blurs of 

blue. 

I looked out, out, to where the lights and 

rain 
Were putting silver on the street, and black, 
To see at last if you were coming back 
Who never can come back to me again. 
K [129] 



The Drums in Our Street 

But as I stood alone, and watched for you 
With bitterness and pain — before I knew, 
The bitterness and grieving all were gone. 
The Spring wind touched me. I looked 

down upon 
The little tragedies of shoulder, and 
Slow feet, tired head, and languid, listless 

hand; 
The little comedies of bird-like, fleeting 
Quick glances, and of glad eyes boldly 

meeting. 
You fought that these young things today 

might sate 
Their thirst for Spring, might laugh, and 

weep and mate. 
That all might still go on like this, you 

died. 
To save their youth, your youth was cruci- 
fied. 

[130] 



The Drums in Our Street 

Because of this you shall forever after 

Be one with love and youth and joy and 

laughter. 
Because of this you still in all that meet 
Shall smile and touch and speak within this 

street. 
Love in my eyes, I looked again, and knew 
In all who pass, there is a part of you. 
And now each night I lean out, out, and see 
Once more, my lover coming home to me. 



Printed in the United States of America. 

[131] 



*HE following pages contain advertisements of a 
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